The Wicked Truth

And below the waist…? “What in God’s name have you got in your breeches?”

“What a naughty question, milord! You’ll never know. How’s my hair?”

He jerked his eyes away from her lower body and noticed her head, topped by a soft, wavy cap of red-gold minus its tousled ringlets. The style reminded him of Terry’s Brutus, a cut affected years earlier by Lord Byron, casually brushed forward to frame the face. A bit out-of-date, perhaps, but it neatly disguised her lack of side-whiskers.

“We should darken it,” he muttered, wanting nothing more than to slide his fingers through the shiny stuff and feel the shape of her head against his palms. “Your color’s too distinctive. I’ll see to some dye stuff.”

Grudgingly, he stepped forward and picked up the jacket he’d laid out. “Here, put this on. And these,” he ordered, picking up the boots and handing them over.

He nodded when she had finished dressing. The loose coat hid the worst—or best—of her curves and the straight sides of the boots covered the shape of her calves. Her face still looked like an angel’s, though. A very feminine angel’s. He fumbled around in his pocket and withdrew his spectacles, the ones he wore for close work when his eyes were tired. “Here, try these.”

She hooked the wire frames around her ears and assumed a frowning, purse-mouthed stare. Neil thought she looked charming, like a child playing dress-up and fooling no one but herself.

“I guess you’ll do.” He sighed. “Let’s see you walk.”

Elizabeth strutted around the room, hands swinging in a parody of Terry’s loose-limbed gait, and then rested in a negligent, purely masculine pose. He had to admit her movements matched those of a young dandy. “Perhaps you missed your calling, Elizabeth. Quite the little actress, aren’t you?”

She grinned, her face lighting at what she took for praise. “I may never go back to skirts!”

Neil cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. The scamp was clearly enjoying this despite the reasons for it. Why that should surprise him, he didn’t know. Her adventurous nature was the talk of the town.

He let his gaze wander over her, looking for things to improve. What the devil did she have in her trousers? Whatever it was, it would have been vastly flattering on a man twice her size. “Maybe you ought to reduce your…endowments just a bit, Elizabeth.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Certainly not! And don’t call me Elizabeth.”

He laughed at her indignation and shook his head. “It’s too large, my dear. Much too large. People will stare, believe me.”

“Well, if they’re staring at that, they won’t be staring at my face, now will they?” Inordinately pleased with her reasoning, she pranced back and forth, practicing in the unfamiliar boots. “What will you call me?”

“Percival, I think. You look like a Percival,” he teased.

“No, no, something manly. How about Drummond or Bu-ford?” She opened the humidor on top of the dresser and stuck a cheroot in one corner of her mouth. She gripped it between her teeth so that it took an upward slant, exactly as Terry used to do.

Neil felt a sharp pang of loss at the sight, recalling the first time he’d caught Terry smoking. “Don’t,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flew to his, and he knew instantly that she understood. Jerking the cheroot out of her mouth, she tossed it back into the humidor without a word.

A moment passed before she broke the silence. “Well, all right, Percival it is then, if you insist. And Betts, short for Elizabeth. Papa used to call me Betts. Yes, Percival Betts!”

Smiling rakishly, she offered her hand for him to shake. “I am born.”

MacLinden rapped on the bedroom door before he entered. “Security downstairs is fine. Your Oliver seems to know what he’s about. Good man,” he said, noting Elizabeth Marleigh’s transformation. “And so you appear, my lady! I must say, though, you’re too well turned out for a valet.”

He walked around her, observing from all angles. His gaze locked on the front of her trousers and he raised a brow. “Perhaps we ought to pass you off as a patient—a medical curiosity, I should think.”

Lady Marleigh looked indignant, Neil laughed out loud and MacLinden couldn’t stifle a grin. “Why, such a virile specimen as yourself ought not to languish as a mere servant,” he continued, teasing. “Why don’t we set you up as the doctor’s protége?”

“Not a bad idea, Lindy,” Neil mused. “A valet wouldn’t accompany me everywhere, but an assistant certainly might.”

The lady shook her head. “I know nothing about medicine!”

“Doc does have a point,” MacLinden said, brushing off her protest with a wave of his hand. “The clothes really are a bit too fine for a hireling, anyway. All right then, we’ll introduce you as the son of a family friend. You’ve studied medicine in Edinburgh and come to London to sharpen your skills in…?”

“Research,” Neil supplied with a satisfied nod. “I’ll be involved in research. That should keep us fairly well isolated for the most part, but give us leave to poke about as we will.”

“What of your patients?” MacLinden asked.

“I have none as yet,” Neil explained. “I’ve been abroad until recently, as you know. I was to take up my new position at St. Stephen’s next week and look about for an office to let for my private practice, but I’ve had to make other plans.”

“Now you’re the earl and such wouldn’t be appropriate, eh? Noblesse oblige and all that?”

“Just so,” Neil agreed dryly. “I’ll set up my own laboratory here in the conservatory, but I needn’t be in a hurry to begin any actual work. The organization of it will be a perfect cover, since I would need an extra pair of hands about. Dr. Percival Betts should serve nicely, don’t you think?”

“Percival?” MacLinden asked, pursing his lips in distaste.

“Dr. Percival Betts at your service, Inspector,” Elizabeth said, offering her hand to shake as she had done earlier.

“She is born,” Neil said with a wry twist of his lips and a quirked eyebrow.

“Better than fully grown, I daresay,” MacLinden remarked with another pointed look at the lady’s crotch. “Do something about that, will you, before Doc’s cronies decide to write you up in the medical texts?”

Chapter Five

Neil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The whole ridiculous scenario was giving him a headache. “I have a horrible premonition that the first time you show yourself, everyone’s going to point and say, ‘Oh look! It’s Lady Marleigh in breeches! How utterly daring of her, and let’s call the peelers.’ This is insane. Why don’t we just hide you?”

“Because you need me to help find the killer! I promise you no one will know me,” she said, apparently upset that he questioned the effectiveness of her disguise.

Lindy agreed. “She’s right. We do need her to keep an eye out for this man Terry met at the theater. As for the disguise, I don’t believe I would recognize her if I met her on the street, unknowing. Look at her objectively, Neil. Unless she comes face-to-face with someone who knows her quite well, I think she should be perfectly convincing.”

Neil paced. He wished he didn’t feel so disoriented. Seeing the woman got up like a man and playing the part so well unnerved him. “A big part of London’s male population probably does know her quite well!” he said.

“No, they don’t,” she argued. “Father and I just came down from Edinburgh shortly before he died. We hadn’t yet accepted any invitations in town when it happened. Then there was the, hurried journey back to Kent for his burial. I was veiled at the funeral and spoke with almost no one. Cousin Colin took care of everything. I stayed secluded until—” She broke off with a distant look and swallowed hard.

“Until?” Lindy prompted.

“The weekend at the Smythes’ estate,” she said, forcing the words out as though they hurt her throat. “Colin encouraged me to accompany him to Lady Smythe’s for a quiet weekend. Said it would ease our grief. I didn’t want to go. Father had been laid to rest only three weeks before.”

“But you did go,” Neil remarked with more accusatory force than he intended.

“Yes,” she answered defiantly. “I went.”

Lindy tapped the heel of his pipe thoughtfully and cleared his throat before speaking. “Well, there’s Lady Smythe we must avoid, I suppose. And of course, the men. What about those with whom you…”

“Consorted is the nice word you’re looking for, Lindy,” Neil supplied. Then he turned on her. “What about the two men discovered in your room with you?” The thought of it made him want to shoot the men and to shake her for her stupidity.

“Their mission did not include writing odes to my eyebrows. I doubt they looked once above my neck!”

“They bloody well did a damned essay on the rest of you, though, didn’t they?”

“Children, children!” Lindy soothed. “Let’s keep to the matter at hand.” He grasped Neil’s arm, but the new earl jerked away angrily and stalked to the window, looking out.

Seemingly satisfied that the outburst was over, Lindy continued the questions. “Now then, Betts,” he said, indicating to both of them that he intended her to be Betts from now on, “you say you don’t think Lords Frame and Tilburn would recognize you in disguise?”

Neil noted that she didn’t even look surprised that Lindy knew the identity of the men. Everyone knew.

“They were thoroughly foxed that night,” she said thoughtfully. “And I had never spoken with them before.” She met Neil’s eyes as he turned, and there was no shame in hers, just renewed anger. “They were only there for a moment,” she added.

“Damned swift, then? Must have disappointed you no end.”

“Shut up, Neil,” Lindy barked. “Have done with your bickering or I’ll do this in private!”

Neil stiffened with surprise. Lindy never used that tone with him. “Next you’ll have me defending her honor, I suppose!”

“Watch your mouth, my lord, or I’ll rearrange your teeth for you, and don’t think I can’t do it. This arm can bloody well pack a punch, thanks to you. Now sit down over there and mind your manners.” The inspector jerked his head toward the bed.

Lindy was right. Neil sat. Why was he acting such a bastard about this? What right had he to judge Elizabeth just because he was enamored of her and mad as hell about it? He almost wished Lindy had made good the threat and planted him a facer. He admitted he deserved it.

Lindy kept at her, but at least his voice was kind. “The incident with the boat—how many saw you then?”

“Lots, I suppose. Maybe ten or twelve people, but I was bedraggled as a drowned cat and I still…had my hair.” She fingered the short tresses just above her ear. When she saw Neil watching the gesture, she quickly pocketed her hand and lifted a defiant chin. “I don’t recall speaking to any of the guests Colin invited down. Twice I was accosted in the hallways, but it was rather dark. After that, I mostly kept to my room.”

“Accosted?” Neil certainly wanted to follow that up.

“Shut up!” the others said in unison, turning on him with eyebrows raised as though he’d said something out of turn. Neil held up his palms in a mute apology that he in no way meant.

“Have you attended any public events during your stay here or kept company with anyone else?” Lindy asked, as though Neil hadn’t interrupted.

She lowered her head and answered softly, “No. You see, we’ve never gone about much in society and have done no entertaining since my mother died. I was thirteen then. My friends, or the few I claim, are of rather modest means and live in our village.”

“A veritable recluse,” Neil muttered sarcastically, clamping his mouth closed when Lindy shot him another warning look.

“Well then!” MacLinden summed up her revelations. “We have nothing much to worry over, do we? Keep well away from Colin Marleigh and Lady Smythe and there should be no problems. Needless to say, do keep a sharp eye out for anyone who looks familiar and avoid him or her at all cost.”

He turned back to Neil. “You and your” assistant’ should begin to frequent Terry’s haunts, I think. Perhaps Boodle’s and White’s would be good places to begin. Men talk freely at the clubs, don’t they, and who knows what you might glean? I have no entrée to either place so you two could assist me greatly in the investigation. You might do the theater a few times and see if you spot or overhear anyone who resembles the man who approached Terry. You can manage all that, eh, Betts?”

“My pleasure, Lindy,” she said, her good humor apparently restored by MacLinden’s show of faith. The challenging tilt of her head dared Neil to object.

He nodded at Lindy. “Wednesday night,” he suggested. “Terry always went to White’s for cards on Wednesdays.”

“Very well, then. But first we have to get through the funeral,” Lindy said. “I’ll be with you, of course, both out of respect and in the event that anything untoward should happen. If Betts is unmasked, you see, I can Lake her into custody immediately and whisk her away.”

The three of them looked at each other wordlessly. Neil knew Elizabeth felt every bit as apprehensive as he did about her appearing in public dressed as a man. How she could put up such a courageous front was beyond him. Lindy must be terribly worried about the effect on his new position at the Yard if the truth came out. And as for himself, he thought it would take an act of God to get through Terry’s funeral under the best of circumstances. Dread didn’t begin to describe his current state of mind.

Later that afternoon, Trent MacLinden handed his favorite bowler to the same aging excuse for a butler that he’d interviewed at Marleigh House only hours after Terry Bronwyn’s murder. He carefully hid his surprise at finding the man now established at the country estate of Colin Marleigh.

He supposed it wasn’t that unusual, though, come to think of it. As far as Thurston knew, Lady Marleigh had disappeared, and the vacant Marleigh town house hardly needed a butler. Where else would the old man be expected to go but to her cousin, the earl?

“Good afternoon, Mr. Thurston. I’ve come in hopes of a word with Lord Marleigh. Do you remember me?” Lindy asked.

“Of course, Inspector. His lordship’s meeting with his steward at the moment. If you’ll follow me?”

Lindy measured his steps to the butler’s rather dragging gait. Light from the clerestory window above the front door threw reflections off Thurston’s hairless pate. The man’s sour odor and rumpled appearance must be anathema to his new employer, Lindy thought. He might look like an unmade bed, but he had a voice any actor would envy. The gnarled hands shook as the old man reached for the door handle and pushed it downward. The heavy portal swung open without a sound.

“Inspector MacLinden, Scotland Yard, milord,” Thurston announced in his well-modulated baritone.

“Oh very well,” Marleigh mumbled absently, his attention still on the papers he was folding away. “That will be all, Hinkley,” he said to the man Lindy assumed was the steward. “While I’m away I’ll expect reports at least every other day, as usual. You have my itinerary?”

“Of course, milord.” The steward bowed himself out, and Lindy watched Thurston follow and quietly close the door behind them.

Lindy waited patiently while Colin Marleigh busied himself locking away record books and the other paperwork he’d apparently been discussing with his man.

True to his training, Lindy used the time to observe the young lord, who appeared to be in his late twenties. Marleigh was short and rather stocky, tending toward portliness around his middle. Straight blond hair lay in thin, pomaded strands across an extremely high forehead. A virtually lipfess mouth was compressed into a nearly perfect horizontal line.

His nuse might be noble, Lindy thought, but the ears were doubly so. They protruded outward from his head like clam-shells. Some effort went toward disguising them by employing bushy dundreary whiskers in front and longish, fluffed-out hair behind them.

Given the stick-straight hair on top, Lindy suspected the man’s vanity had bowed to using curling tongs for the locks at the back. The thought prompted a laugh, but he neatly squelched it by clearing his throat. It solved two problems. He got his lordship’s notice.

“Scotland Yard, you say? Then you’re here about my cousin,” Marleigh said, looking up at last through cold, green eyes.

“Lord Marleigh.” Lindy gave a curt nod and what might be construed as a bow if one were generous. He didn’t like the concept of obeisance to anyone, even royalty, though he recognized the need to play the game. It had proved a hard object lesson in his early army days. “Good of you to see me without an appointment.”

Colin Marleigh managed to make his shrug look regal. It barely caused a ripple in his impeccably tailored Tweedside coat. “Could hardly refuse, could I? Lady Elizabeth’s servants came to me with what happened immediately after you questioned them. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can add to what they’ve told you.”

“You could help immensely, milord, if you would give me a bit of insight as to the lady’s character.” Lindy saw no reason to beat about the bush. “Do you believe Lady Elizabeth capable of the shooting?”

Marleigh’s sharp green gaze shifted down and raked the carefully arranged desktop. Lindy wondered why the question bothered the man. Surely it was expected. After a long exhalation of breath, the young lord finally looked up. “No, Inspector, I think not. You see…”

The words had drifted off into a protracted silence. When nothing else was forthcoming, Lindy prompted, “Yes, mi-lord?”

“She’s a shy little thing for the most part.” Marleigh rested an elbow on the desk and leaned forward, massaging his forehead with long, white fingers. “Perhaps. Maybe in one of her spells. I confess I don’t know for certain, but I hate to believe she would actually, well, shoot anyone.” He glanced up, the look almost pleading in its intensity. “Do you think?”

MacLinden shook his head sorrowfully and sighed. “It certainly appears as though she did. She had best access to the weapon. She knew the victim quite well, and Lord Havington would have allowed her entry without suspicion.”

Lindy paused as he watched the earl fidget with a jeweled letter knife. “However, we are wondering about the motive, you see. Have you any idea what might have prompted her? That is, if she is guilty.”

“Madness,” Marleigh said in an agonized whisper.

“I beg your pardon, milord? Madness?” Lindy blustered loudly, breaking the mood of quiet suspense he thought the earl was trying to engineer.

“Yes, by God, the woman is mad!” Words tumbled out now as Marleigh threw up his hands and shoved back his chair to rise. Agitated, he began to pace. “She’s been nothing but confounding of late! Haring around in her underthings, making assignations with bounders she wouldn’t have given the time of day four months ago, indulging in screaming fits that would raise the dead. You can’t feature the embarrassment that woman has caused me since her father died!”

“Why, that’s terrible, milord,” Lindy declared, looking aghast at the news.

“Damned right it is!” Marleigh seemed to calm a little now that he’d made his point. Then he sat down again, his face sorrowful. “If only I’d confined her when I first admitted it to myself, poor Havington would now be alive.” He hung his head and let his hands drop by his sides, clenching his fingers as if in frustration. “I feel responsible.”

“I see,” Lindy said, smoothing his mustache. “What did you think about her contemplating marriage to Lord Having-ton?”

“Was she?” Marleigh looked properly shocked. “He certainly never approached me for her hand, and she never said a word. There were rumors, of course, but then there always are. I never pay attention to gossip.”

“He announced it at White’s earlier on the night he died.”

“Fancy that,” Marleigh said, shaking his head. “The match might have worked wonders, but I doubt it.” He sighed. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he brought the interview to a close. “Well, if you have no further questions, Inspector, I’ll be off. My coach should be ready by now.”

“Where might I reach you if I need to speak with you again, milord?” Lindy asked politely, stepping toward the door and pulling it open. Thurston, waiting just outside, handed him his hat.

“I shall be searching for my cousin, if you must know,” Marleigh said. “The poor woman could be anywhere, terrified of what is to happen to her. Despite her unstable condition, Inspector, I really can’t see Elizabeth committing murder, or think of any reason why she should even if she were capable.”

The earl placed a restraining hand on Lindy’s arm as they reached the front door. “If you happen to find her before I do, MacLinden, may I count on you to treat her gently?”

Lindy regarded the man, trying to perceive how sincere he was. Not very, he concluded with a nod. “You certainly may depend upon that, milord. I shall give her my every consideration.”

The next day, Elizabeth fully assumed her role as Dr. Per-cival Betts. In their preoccupation with getting her dressed appropriately for the funeral, both she and Neil were able to avoid dwelling on the event itself. Arrival at Gormsloft Castle brought on the realization that their final, respective farewells to Terry were all too imminent.

Pitifully few mourners came to the lichen-covered chapel at Gormsloft. Neil had mentioned that the castle was the oldest and smallest of the Havington properties, dating back some three hundred years. The only servants about looked ancient enough to have been there since the castle was constructed.

Feeling -extremely vulnerable and exposed, Elizabeth walked a few paces behind Neil as he approached Terry’s coffin. She brushed the brim of her beaver stovepipe back and forth against her left leg, wishing it were proper to keep it on her head. Terry wouldn’t have cared a jot for such a breach of respect. He’d have laughed himself silly at the sight of her.

The tight feeling in her throat increased. Oh, she wished he could see. She wished to God he were alive to see instead of lying in that satin-lined, mahogany box. From where she stood now, she could just see a slice of his forehead and the tip of his nose. Another step forward and his whole face would be visible. She drew in a steadying breath to brace herself and moved up to see him.

Oh God, his hair was combed too neatly. Too neat for Terry. A sound escaped the constriction in her throat and she swallowed hard, twice, to stifle a full-fledged sob.

The doctor turned slightly, his eyes heavy lidded and admonishing. If I can do this, so can you, they seemed to say. Grasping her hat in one fist, her cane in the other, she locked her knees against the urge to flee.

Holding her breath, Elizabeth kept her eyes on the earl as he approached the edge of the casket. He carefully tugged off his right glove, and his bare, long-fingered hand reached out hesitantly. He touched Terry’s forehead, gently disturbing the carefully coiffed waves so that they rested in their usual disorder. His fingers trembled and then curled into his palm. Neil bowed his head. His slowly released sigh was the only sound inside the chapel.

Elizabeth forced herself to draw a breath and let it out. Through a sheen of tears, she focused on a spray of flowers beside the coffin, counting the petals of one particular bloom, seeking the Latin name in the recesses of memory—anything to block grief from her mind until she could master her emotions.

When she had herself in hand, she looked back to see that Neil had stepped aside slightly, still staring down at the remains of his nephew.

Knowing she must, she moved to the edge of the bier and gazed on the face she had last seen smiling. He looked waxen, his lips too finely drawn. Satin billowed so high around his head the ears were almost completely covered. I won’t think why that is! I won’t! she warned herself, as her breath caught in her throat.